


Yule Shoot Your Eye Out

by gutrots



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Baking, Christmas, Cooking, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, HYDRA Husbands, Holidays, Injury Recovery, Internalized Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M, Not Beta Read, On the Run, Permanent Injury, References to Home Alone Movies, Relationship Issues, Self-Hatred, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-27 13:11:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17162570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gutrots/pseuds/gutrots
Summary: Brock and Jack and Christmas, over the years.





	1. Washington, DC - 2002

“You've got soup in that pot on the stove and dumplings in the fridge. Chuck them in the microwave for two minutes if you want 'em warm. I'm leaving the cheesecake in the tin so it doesn’t dry out, don’t eat it all in one go!” Jack yells in the vague direction of the living room, where Brock is sprawled on the couch, beer in hand and a frown on his face as the Devils lose the game to the Bruins.

“ 'm not driving all the way back just 'cuz you can’t control your goddamn sugar cravings” he mutters to himself, knowing full well Brock can’t hear him, equal parts due to the roaring crowd on the TV and his dodgy right ear.

The match must have ended and so Brock walks into the kitchen of his tiny apartment, leaning against the cabinets and observing as Jack wipes flour off the hideous laminate countertops. He sloshes his beer around in the bottle, taking a sip as he surveys Jack’s work. The moment passes in tense near-silence as Brock yawns and lifts up his shirt to scratch at his stomach, gaze trained on the floor, lazy and pensive all at once.

“You don’t have to worry so fuckin' much about me, you know. Was just fine on my own, before you came around” he mutters, more to the kitchen tile than to Jack. Its nondescript gray color matches the rainy sky outside the fogged window and the grout is in dire need of a proper scrubbing.

“If that’s what you wanna believe. Like cold pizza and shitty beer, all by your fuckin’ lonesome, is a good way to spend the holidays” Jack replies as he rinses out sponges and cloths, almost finished for the day.

“Always worked out for me. Not my fault you decided to invite yourself over and do all this cooking like you’re my goddamn housewife.”

Jack braces his arms on the sink, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and Brock can almost see the flutter of tense muscle underneath pale skin and fine hair, accompanied by a barely-there dusting of freckles. Jack's eyes are closed and he breathes deeply, almost like he can will Brock’s words to dissipate into the air.

Brock knows better though, knows he's not the one to let things slide so easily.

“It’s like you think I can’t fuckin' look after myself. No respect for your commanding officer, whatsoever. For shame, Rollins” he muses more to himself than to make conversation, but the words must have hit something as Jack slams a spatula he's been wiping dry against the counter, a little too hard for it to be accidental.

“Is that what this is to you then, just a 'CO and his second fucking about after hours' kind of a deal?”

For how he’s a grumpy bastard most of the time, Rollins looks oddly _hurt_.

Brock decides he's at least six beers short of being able to deal with any of this.

“It is what it is. Which is none of that  _boyfriend_ bullshit” he quips, content to at least have that established for now. “Which is also why you really should get going, Jackie. Your ma won’t be too happy if you're late for Christmas, and you know I'm not crazy about you staying the night either.”

Jack puts away the last of the utensils, refusing to meet Brock’s gaze as he moves out of the kitchen and into the hallway. He gets a poorly aimed smack to the thigh as he bends over to pull on his boots, followed by a tipsy smirk as he buttons up his coat.

Brock sends Jack on his way with a loud, lewd smack of a kiss to his neck, yelling a “Merry fuckin’ Christmas, Rollins” as Jack is suddenly mostly out the door, sparing one last glance Brock's way.

Brock reassures himself he isn’t bothered neither by the lack of a reply, nor the way Jack’s eyes look kind of wet all of a sudden.


	2. Bowie, Maryland - 2005

“C’mon, get your lazy ass out of bed. We’ve got to go get you something to wear.” Brock shivers as the duvet is pulled off his body, whatever heat he managed to accumulate overnight leaving his naked skin in mere seconds. The sun is shining bright despite temperatures hitting freezing for the better part of the month, and he drapes an arm over his eyes, begging for _five more minutes_ , Jack always up at fuck o’clock in the morning even on their days off.

“Why is it always either three piece suits or those ratty sweatpants with you, hm? No fuckin' in-between, ever” Jack grumbles as he rifles through the closet, the words not registering with Brock, not until he's had his coffee, preferably in the company of a proper breakfast and a fair amount of steady hands low on his hips, just to steer him clear of walking into the sharp corners of the hardwood counters in Jack’s kitchen.

“Mam wants us over at 4pm sharp, and you've got to look presentable. Not for her, she adores you already anyway, but Janice and Jen will be more difficult to impress.”

“Like you’re any fuckin' different” Brock mumbles, as the important part of what Jack just said hits all of a sudden. “Did you say I'm coming over to your mum's for Christmas?”

“Said _we're_ coming over to my mum’s for Christmas. You've met her a few times already, no harm in introducing you to everyone else.”

Jack turns away from the closet towards Brock, moving to sit on the bed next to him. He's got that gorgeous smile on his face, the one that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners and pulls at the still-pink scar on his jaw.

Brock wants to _die._

Instead he forces himself to approach this as diplomatically as possible this early in the day.

“Listen, Jack. Maybe this isn’t the best idea. What if they don’t like me? You know how I am.” _Annoying. Rude. Loud. Terrible table manners._ “You really don’t wanna be bringing that home with you.”

_Awful. Insufferable. Selfish bastard like no other. Fundamentally unlovable, to Jack's misfortune._

“Too fucking late, already done that” Jack observes, and Brock knows what he must look like right now, messy hair and pillow creases on his stubbly cheek, the way Jack likes him best. He feels so completely and utterly sorry for having to break Jack’s heart like that.

He knows it’s for the best.

“Y’know damn well what I mean. And besides, that’s just not our style, now is it, Jackie?” he tries to say with a smile, to keep up the pretense of being entirely carefree, careless even, about things that all of a sudden seem more significant than anything and everything else.

“What isn’t our style, exactly?” Jack asks like he already knows the answer.

Brock wants to tell the truth so badly, the sentiment boiling down to _People finding out about us and seeing right through me_ and _Everyone knowing you’re too good for me,_ mostly _._

He doesn’t say any of it, because he has to ruin this. Fuck it up beyond saving, just to prove the point. To keep Jack and all his relatives from massive disappointment down the line.

“You know, all this." Brock makes a vague gesture around the bedroom, between the two of them. "Gay shit.” He tries to shrug his shoulders while horizontal, to make himself look as flippant as possible.

And there it is, Jack's expression changing from apprehensive uncertainty to barely controlled anger, the words still hitting something deep inside him after all those years.

“Oh, so that's what this is about now” Jack spits, in that tone that’s worse that any screaming or crying or anything Brock has ever heard, and he tries to lie there and pretend this is what he intended.

_For Jack's own good. For the best._

“Moving in with me and sticking your dick up my ass on any given occasion is fine, but it’s gay to meet my goddamn sisters.” Jack is rambling now and Brock knows he did it, he fucked up any chance of the day going according to Jack’s plan. He doesn’t feel any pride in the accomplishment but what had to be done has been done.

Regardless, he tries to placate Jack’s anger, because Jack deserves better than having to deal with this kind of shitshow at Christmas.

 _He deserves better than me. Year round_.

“Jack, Jackie, you know this ain’t about that. About you or Janice or any of your family” Brock tries to soothe, but it doesn’t seem to have much effect.

“What the fuck is it about then?”

 _Me. It’s always about me_ , Brock admits, but only to himself.

He stares at the bedroom window as Jack gets up and leaves, muttering something along the lines of “Why is nothing ever easy with you” as he goes.

It starts to snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First time writing angst. Think I should stick with nastygross gore. Soz


	3. Bowie, Maryland - 2009

Jack wakes up to a lack of familiar soft snoring and the rumpled sheets on Brock’s side of the bed long gone cold. He tries to remain calm, as Brock being the first one up is a rare occurrence, and rarely a good one. There’s a sudden sound of metallic clatter and muffled cursing coming from the kitchen, and Jack stalks quietly towards the door, unsure what he will be walking in on.

Brock is standing at the kitchen counter, barefoot and dressed only in one of Jack’s ancient, threadbare band shirts and a pair of black boxers, an apron tied around his waist speckled in stains of flour and butter and whatever else.

“What the everloving fuck are you up to?” is all Jack can manage, because as good as Brock looks right now, hair free of that God awful gel of his and a fleck of cocoa powder dusted on a sharp cheekbone, there’s something unsettling seeing him so oddly at ease at work in the kitchen.

“Making biscuits. Gingerbread.” Brock explains like it’s the most obvious thing ever, and Jack moves closer, peeking into the metal bowl Brock is using for mixing. There’s a sizeable ball of dark, aromatic dough slowly coming together in spite of Brock’s fairly mediocre kneading technique, and it smells good already, plenty of clove and nutmeg and a hint of cinnamon and allspice, topped off with the unmistakable sharpness of ginger.

Jack wraps an arm around Brock’s waist, holding on leisurely, watching his strong, shapely hands work the dough.

“Why, pray tell, are you making biscuits? Not that I don’t appreciate it –"

“Can’t show up to your mam's empty-handed. Roads are frozen over, it’s pretty gnarly out there. We'll save a good half an hour if we don’t have to go pick stuff up.”

It still doesn’t explain why Brock is doing what he’s doing, because that’s not him, this simple domesticity thst smells of winter spices and icing sugar, fresh butter and rich, dark cocoa. Jack doesn’t dare question it though, afraid to break the spell.

“Show me what you've got” he asks instead, and Brock stops kneading, offering Jack his right hand, sticky bits of dough caked around each finger. Jack bends down and catches Brock's index and middle fingers with his lips.

The flavour is strong, spicy almost, in the best way possible. Nearly as good as what Jack makes himself. He licks the rest of Brock’s fingers clean, just for good measure, pretending like he can't make up his mind about what he's tasting.

'’ 'S good. Needs a bit more honey though.”

Brock only hums in acknowledgement, focused on his task. He wipes a hand on the apron and reaches for a plastic bottle perched amidst the mess on the counter.

“No, not that, that’s garbage” Jack remarks in time, and Brock gives him a puzzled look as Jack reaches towards the back of the top shelf of the cabinets, retrieving a glass jar of solid, yellowish-white _something_.

“Now this is the good stuff. Try some.” Jack opens the lid and Brock immediately sticks his index finger inside, making a sizeable dent in the surface of the honey.

He smiles to himself as he pops the finger in his mouth, giving a content sigh as he savors the sweetness. Uncaring about the mess on his apron or the stickiness of his hands, he stretches up on his tip-toes and captures Jack’s lips in a slow, gentle kiss, tasting of honey and spices.

It's tempting, to grab Brock’s thighs just where the oversized shirt hits right below his ass, to run his hands up Brock’s back and feel the warm skin and countless scars there. To let Brock fuck him into the mattress, slow and lazy and sweet.

It’s even more tempting to see how Brock’s first ever venture into baking will play out, and so Jack pulls back, leaving Brock almost whining in disappointment.

“Finish the dough, and we can go back to bed while it rests" Jack consoles, leaving Brock with one last peck to the cheek before he heads off for the bathroom.

“Two teaspoons of sour cream if you want your biscuits softer!” he yells over the spray of the shower, and Brock can't help but smile.


	4. Livermore, Colorado - 2014

The night is dark and cloudy, snowflakes beginning to fall from the starless sky as Brock pulls into the parking lot in front of the motel. He struggles with too many plastic bags as he refuses to make two trips back to the car, snow melting in his hair and breath coming in fatigued puffs by the time he makes it to the door. The lock is dodgy and he gives the handle a bit too much of a shake as he tries to get inside, the wet, biting chill of the night soaking right through his jacket.

The room is stuffy, with a pungent hint of mildew emanating from unwashed curtains and the shaggy wall-to-wall carpet. Mystery stains climb all the way up to the ceiling, and despite his fairly lax approach to household cleanliness, Brock is feeling strangely suspicious about having to use the kitchenette.

It’s an awful place to be spending Christmas.

But Jack is here too, just where Brock left him when he went to do his shopping, tucked in underneath too many blankets and propped up on too many pillows. He's hooked up to an IV, the bag of nutritional solution almost empty, and Brock hopes Jack wakes the fuck up sometime soon. As much as he hates to admit it, he's running low both on the supplies keeping Jack alive right now, and the ways to acquire more without waltzing right back into the SHIELD black site he rescued Jack from.

They ditched the quinjet shortly after Brock made his escape, Jack’s broken body carried over his shoulder and bullet casings raining around him, just like rice and gold coins on their wedding day. He's been driving since, making good progress on their route north, but Jack needs to wake up, or else it’s all for nothing anyway.

Brock sets down his shopping and checks on Jack. His breathing is slow but even, pulse and body temperature as they should be. He fusses with the pillows, gives a quick massage to Jack's hands and feet to improve the blood flow, hoping to provide some semblance of comfort. He combs back greasy hair from Jack’s forehead, pressing a kiss right between the eyebrows, alongside a new scar that will match the one on Jack's chin, and returns to the bags.

The smell of cheap plastic hits him the moment he takes out a tiny, artificial Christmas tree out of its box. He decorates it with sparkly red ornaments that leave flecks of glitter all over his hands, iridescent flakes getting stuck in the raised groves of burn tissue, adding a string of multicolored lights and some golden tinsel to top it off.

All things considered, it doesn’t look too terrible.

Next, he sets about preparing his meal. It’s nothing like what they would have at home, Jack going borderline insane with the Polish tradition of having twelve different dishes on the table, all of them hearty and well-seasoned, warm and filling and goddamn delicious despite being meat-free. Instead, Brock heats up a TV dinner in the grimy microwave while his twelve pack of beer is chilling in the foul-smelling fridge. He has to remind himself that this is _good_.

Preferable to the alternative at least, Brock repurposed as HYDRA's newest Asset and Jack rotting away in a prison cell somewhere in New Mexico.

He sits down in the creaking armchair, tray of bland food in his lap and a supply of cheap beer within arm's reach, and he switches on the TV. The image is grainy and flickering, but it’s something to focus on, other than the bandaged stumps of Jack’s fingers or the faint twitching of his left eyelid concealing an empty eye socket.

Brock turns down the volume so that Jack can hear him talk. He’s read somewhere that it helps to talk to people in a coma, to tell them boring shit like the storyline of movies they have seen a thousand times.

Granted, he doesn’t know if Jack is in a coma at all, doesn’t know really what’s happening and where the fuck Jack might be when he’s obviously not in his body. Every day, he takes in the stitches on the side of Jack's head, remembers the way he found him sprawled on bare concrete, and prays that the brain damage is minimal.

 _Home Alone_ is the only decent movie on, and Brock talks and talks his way through Macaulay Culkin's shenanigans, through the booby traps and the creepy old man, paint tins suspended like a pendulum, tar and goose down followed by entirely too many falls down the stairs.

It’s tedious, all of it, and by the time he's eight beers in he feels mostly annoyed rather than charmed with 90s nostalgia. But it's funny too, in a way, how little room there is for theatricality when dealing with grave danger first hand.

He imagines himself dropping marbles from the pocket of his tac suit as he runs for his life, Jack’s dead weight somehow not slowing him down at all, SHIELD goons falling with their legs high up in the air. Setting up a trap with string and pin tucks so the fuckers pursuing them get it right in the knee caps as they try to board the quinjet.

“I just don’t fuckin' get it Jackie, what’s the point?” he says, voice a bit slurred and a touch too loud. “Rich little fucker must have a gun somewhere in the goddamn house. Daddy's office probably, in the desk drawer. Just grab it and shoot the bastards. 's what I would’ve done if I was a kid getting home-intruded. Pop the motherfuckers right in their ugly-ass heads.”

He laughs at the thought, imagining the two burglars with their skulls split open from a point blank shot, blood and brain bits on the snow matching the red poinsettia decorations. He chokes on his beer a little, sputtering and coughing, and he barely hears the words over the noise he's making.

“You had a fucked up childhood” Jack croaks out, voice rough from weeks of disuse and his one good eye barely open, surprisingly coherent despite the amount of painkillers running through his body. He gives Brock a lopsided grin, wincing when he pulls on his split lip, every ounce the snide bastard he's always been.

It’s a fucking Christmas miracle if Brock’s ever seen one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I write this whole thing only for this chapter? Maybe


	5. Red Rock, Montana - 2015

“And then you fold it in half."

Brock lets the motion of Jack's palm closing around his guide him, gathering the dough around a lump of sauerkraut and mushroom filling.

“Yeah, just like that. Now pinch the corners together” Jack instructs, and Brock follows, hand still resting in Jack's larger one, although the half-assembled dumpling is no longer threatening to escape his grasp and make its merry way to the floor. As delicately as his burned fingertips will allow, Brock grabs the corners of the half-circle one after another, the stretchy, pliant dough sticking together effortlessly.

“And pinch along the edge. Thumb and middle finger always worked best for me” Jack mutters from where he’s stood with his front pressed to Brock’ back, chin resting on Brock's shoulder, a warm and solid presence. His voice is slurred just a bit, words flowing too close together sometimes, but Brock doesn’t mind, enjoying how soft it sounds.

After everything they’ve been through, he is grateful for every ounce of softness he is so utterly undeserving of. 

“So that’s how you get the ruffles” Brock muses, surprised, as his fingers leave an irregular pattern of divots and ridges, the dumpling sealed and ready for boiling. Jack only smiles in return, moving to the other side of the flour-covered table.

Brock places the finished dumpling on a clean dishcloth, scrutinizing it under the warm light of an antique pendant lamp accompanied by an orange glow from the living room fireplace.

“Not my finest work, this one. Yours always looked better.” Jack looks up from where he's cutting out circles with an upturned glass, making quick work of a sheet of paper-thin dough. He’s made good progress, not letting the missing or mangled fingers get in the way of most of his daily tasks, only delegating the more precise ones to Brock. It’s a good arrangement, and Brock finds it more reassuring than anything, seeing Jack comfortable again in their old, worn routines.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. As long as it’s closed properly and the dough doesn’t tear, you’re good.”

Jack portions the filling with a teaspoon, placing a scoop on each circle. Brock picks up one and gets started on his second attempt, slower and clumsier than he would like without Jack’s rough, warm hand to support his. Despite everything, he is still quick to annoyance, if not anger, and another mediocre attempt at _pierogi_ clouds his thoughts with everything Jack is resolutely not saying.

That Brock’s work is good, because this is as good as it will get from now on.

Because Brock set in motion a chain of events that, amongst everything else, left Jack unable to cook dumplings by himself ever again. As trivial as the conclusion is, it makes Brock unreasonably upset.

He thought that the frown lines on his forehead would get lost amongst the sea of burn scars, but apparently they don’t, not to anyone who knows him as well as Jack does, because as soon as the heavy weight of guilt shrouds his mind all over again, Jack is back to Brock’s side of the table.

He pulls Brock in with an arm around his waist, pressing a kiss to the top of Brock’s head, murmuring a reassuring “Don’t worry, you’ve got plenty to practice with” into his greying hair.

Brock knows Jack knows this isn’t about the dumplings, not really. But he is endlessly grateful for the effort to make it about _pierogi_ and nothing else, just another domestic affair, a day like any other. Jack has always been like that, able to tell exactly when Brock needs to talk through something serious and when he simply needs a distraction from whatever troubles him. Brock doesn’t remember anyone else ever being able to read him like this, whether he allowed it or not.

It reassures him again, after all those years, that he at least made some good choices.

He's pulled out of his reverie with a playful pinch to his flank and a “C'mon, get to work” following a quick kiss to his neck.

Jack is back to his side of the dining table, getting started on another sheet of dough. He looks at ease, broad shoulders moving like waves with every push and pull of the wooden rolling pin. The dough stretches, and springs back just a hint, stretches, and shrinks, and the rhythm of Jack rolling, spinning and turning, pausing to sprinkle flour over the surface, is hypnotizing. Brock tries to make quick work of shaping the remaining dumplings, just so he can watch Jack, his strong arms and muscled back, expression serene.

Time passes as if in slow motion, and Brock doesn’t notice as the dough overtakes most of the tabletop, too focused on the repetitive motion of Jack’s hands, the only sounds in the cabin the steady thrum of the wooden pin rolling against the tabletop and Jack humming to himself as he works, no doubt some classic rock radio hit he remembers from his youth.

“This is gonna take forever, isn’t it?” Brock observes when Jack reaches for the upturned glass again. He gazes out of the kitchen window, taking in the darkness beyond the back porch, pines swaying gently, covered in a blanket of undisturbed snow.

“Why, do you have plans for the evening?” Jack asks without looking up, smile apparent in his voice.

“Naw, Jackie. I've got all the time in the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there's a way to finish the year it's with gross old men being gross and domestic together
> 
> Pierogi are a traditional polish Xmas dish btw.

**Author's Note:**

> Plz enjoy some very last minute holiday nonsense. This year was awful but discovering the Hydra husbands fandom made it marginally more bearable.
> 
> Merry Xmas yall


End file.
